Planning for Love

by Christi Barth

  “Washed up,” Belinda suggested, oh-so-helpfully.

  “Sure. Rub salt in my flayed and bleeding emotional wound.”

  “Reality can be a hard pill to swallow. Best not to candy coat it, because false hope can be toxic.”

  No worries on that particular point. When it came to his career, he and hope had parted ways awhile ago. “Even though I know it’s stupid, I feel like I’m completely shutting the door on my old life if I put down roots. Here or anywhere.”

  Belinda gave a delicate snort. “Renting an apartment isn’t putting down roots. You’re not the kind of guy who’ll ever settle down. Why worry about changing your spots when you’re perfectly happy as is?”

  “Am I? I’m not sure anymore.” Ben watched a chunky woman in a brown suit extend first her hand, then a business card to Ivy. At the same time, the door next to him clanged open. Sam came out, clapping a cloud of flour from his hands. A round of hugs ensued before what he assumed to be the leasing agent unlocked the empty space. Ollie darted through first, probably hoping to get the money shot of Ivy’s face lighting up as she took in the breadth of the potential store. Sam lingered in the doorway, thumb tucked into his half-apron. A sideways jerk of his head indicated Ben should join them. In that instant, Ben hated being on the outside, recording other people’s moments. He wanted, no, he needed to be inside with Ivy, sharing in her infectious delight at the platter of possibilities which lay before her.

  “Lindy, keep the trunk. Better yet, stick it in a cab and send it COD to Dad’s office. I’m sure his secretary will figure out a place for it. And let’s try something crazy, like talking again before the seasons change.” He clicked off without giving her a chance to refuse. The slab of cake would have to wait. The celebration of Ivy’s new business venture struck him as the perfect opportunity to back her into a corner and kiss her speechless. Why worry about the murky future when his present sparkled with the near certainty of sweet smooches?

  * * *

  “Isn’t it hard to eat cake when you’re using both hands to text?” Ben asked pointedly. He’d been jonesing for his reward slice for more than two hours now. Ivy had taken forever with the leasing agent, inspecting every nook and cranny, every outlet, and a bump in the floor Ben couldn’t even feel.

  Great to share her excitement, sure—for about half an hour. After that, the joy got smothered by the oppressive tedium of her, well, to be polite he’d call it attention to detail. But he wanted to call it finickiness. An important quality in a business owner, but boring as hell to watch. The lack of action left him way too much open brain space to think about the conversation with Belinda. Her words had picked at the scabs of one too many tender spots in his psyche. Casting about for anything to distract him, he focused on the multi-layered goodness of the German chocolate cake right next door. But he couldn’t dive in until Ivy dropped the phone and picked up her fork.

  “Sorry, but this is an emergency.” She poked at one last button, then raised her hands with a flourish. “Done. Now I’m scheduled to chat with Mira tonight.”

  “You schedule your girlfriend chats? Would the world stop turning if you waited an extra day to discuss the latest cast-off from The Bachelor’s ‘most dramatic rose ceremony ever’?”

  Her eyebrows drew together into a vee of displeasure. “First of all, I’m only hooked on The Bachelorette. Seeing the choices controlled by a woman is much more compelling television. Besides, we keep up with our crucial comments by live-streaming them on Facebook during the show.”

  Funny. Guess the sexes weren’t so opposite when it came to social media. “I do that with baseball games,” he admitted. “It’s the next best thing to sitting next to your buddies getting rowdy at a game.”

  “Furthermore, I scheduled a business chat with Mira. If it goes well, I’m going to make her the manager of A Fine Romance.”

  “Bold move. The ink isn’t even dry on the lease, and you’re already hiring employees?”

  “As you pointed out, this is my busy season. I loved creating the concept of A Fine Romance, but execution is a whole different animal. I need someone I trust to make my dream a reality. With the lease signed and a very large deposit dropped, the whole project has to fast forward. My seed money gets eaten up by the rent every single day. Inventory’s got to be collected at the speed of light. The plan is for the store to open in September.”

  “Wow. Fast.”

  “Yes. Hard, but doable. I’ve crunched numbers into more shapes than a protractor, and the most financially viable operating plan hinges on the doors opening within no more than three months.”

  “This Mira better be tough to survive the gift shop boot camp you’ve envisioned.”

  “She’s the best. We went to grad school together. Mira’s work ethic matched mine. Every once in a while, I have to admit, she’d even put me to shame with the scope of her projects and crazy hours. Stubborn, driven and smart as a whip.”

  “That description makes her sound like your twin. Well, if you add gorgeous and sexy. Couldn’t describe you and leave those words out.”

  Halfway to her mouth, Ivy’s fork stalled. She blinked slowly, twice, shuttering away whatever swirled in her hazel eyes. Then she popped in the bite of cake, and licked the frosting off each tine. “I tend not to think about my friends’ sexy quotient. But now that you mention it, she does have amazing breasts. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll mention it to her tonight, to give her a little ego boost. A compliment like that is sure to seal the deal.”

  “Smart ass.” She kept surprising him, like complex layers of flavor in a well-aged wine. “Your paragon of virtue isn’t the only one who can help get your store open on schedule.”

  “Trust me, I’ll take any help with open arms. What did you have in mind?”

  Ben had been waiting for just such an opening to drop this bombshell. Hopefully he could spin it well, before she got the chance to machine gun off an automatic no. “An interview. A live interview, to be exact.”

  She cut another bite, eyes now focused on the cake. Hiding her well-merited suspicion, perhaps? “For what?”

  “A reporter called a few times last week. I told the big bosses about it, and they were mulling the pros and cons of having you do a sit down with her.”

  The slow licking of each tine that drove him crazy recommenced. “Why would anyone want to talk to me?”

  “Remember that pesky commercial that aired last night? Your Wild Wedding Smackdown episode?”

  “No. I mean yes, of course I’m aware that damn episode is about to run. But no, I won’t do an interview about it. Absolutely not.”

  “Use good publicity to fight the bad. In an interview, you can tell your version. And if we make it a live interview, they can’t mess with your words in editing.”

  Ivy still wouldn’t meet his eyes, fixating on a point somewhere up by a row of antique copper baking molds hanging from the ceiling. “I’m not a fan of the old cliché that all exposure is good. The cancellations this morning prove that bad press is just plain bad. My plan is to let the whole thing blow over as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  Sometimes, it sucked to be right. He’d warned the RealTV executives her reaction would be, at best, a resounding no. And now the thankless job of forcing her to change her mind fell to Ben. “You can use it to your advantage. The timing couldn’t be better. Give them a quick sound bite on WWS, and then segue to talk about the amazing store you’ll open in a few months. Great publicity. More importantly, free publicity. Who in their right mind could turn that down?”

  “Then I guess you should order me a straitjacket in pale pink, because I still say no.” Now, finally, she looked him head-on. And there was no mistaking the stubborn jut to her jaw or the glint of battle in her changeable eyes. Ben would admire her passionate determination—if only it wasn’t presently aimed at him like a World War II howitzer. “I won’t talk badly about my bride. The only way to explain my presence on WWS is to throw Tracy under the bus for not lettin
g me know ahead of time. Which leaves me with nothing to say.”

  Damn her moral compass with its permanent setting to true north. The conversation with Belinda had used up his entire quotient of emotional drama for the week. He didn’t have the stomach for fighting with Ivy. Especially not about work. Last night Ivy mentioned a trip to a drive-in movie theater in the offing. A tub of buttered popcorn, seats that reclined, and the chance to kiss his way underneath Ivy’s top. It sounded like the perfect night to Ben. But chances were good she wouldn’t be in the mood to park if he pissed her off over a three-minute sound bite on the local news.

  Unfortunately, the people who signed his paycheck—significantly larger now with his new producing duties—cared only about results. Ben’s lack of action between the sheets didn’t figure into their reams of spreadsheets. He looked up, and caught Sam giving him the fish eye from behind the counter. Ever in protective friend mode, the guy could probably tell Ben was pissing Ivy off. If they were in a cartoon, there’d be steam coming out of her ears right about now. Or was Sam worried their difference of opinion would upset the other customers? The elderly woman at the table next to them had raised her copy of the Tribune into a protective shield as Ivy’s voice increased in both volume and intensity.

  Ben’s spine stiffened. Either way, he sure as hell wouldn’t let some apron-clad man rolling out cookie dough intimidate him. Or influence how he did his job. Ivy might want to play hardball, but she clearly didn’t realize Ben held all the cards. Or some better cliché that didn’t mix metaphors. “Look, we’re both pussyfooting around the obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  Her arch tone pushed him too far. “You’re doing the interview. Bottom line. You can huff and puff all you want, but you’ll put that sweet little butt of yours in a chair across from whatever anchor I say.”

  She started to stand, then thought better of it and sank back down. Instead, she settled for balling up her napkin tight enough to hurl across home plate. “Perhaps I missed a memo. Who died and made you my keeper?” she hissed.

  “You did,” he lobbed back. Ben pushed his plate out of the way and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The moment you signed the contract with RealTV.”

  Ivy stabbed her index finger into the air. “Exactly. I’m contracted with RealTV, not with you. I’m quite sure your job is to record my daily life, not interfere in it.”

  Why did she have to be so stubborn? Time to play his ace in the hole. “Nice try, but I’m not just a cameraman you can push around anymore. Think of me as the living, breathing manifestation of that multi-page contract you signed. The one where it stipulated you would do any and all press requested to promote Planning for Love.”

  Her lips firmed into a thin red line. He could almost see her mentally flipping through the pages of legalese, looking for a loophole. “But you said the reporter wanted to interview me about WWS?”

  “Yup. But the same opportunity to garner free publicity for your new store gives us the chance for some free publicity for Planning for Love. Once the camera is on, you can steer the interview to hype your new, exciting, happily-ever-after show. No way can we let you turn your back on a lucky break like this.” Fingers steepled, he cocked his head. “You did read every line of the contract, didn’t you? A savvy businesswoman like yourself?”

  “Of course I read it,” she huffed. “As did Daphne. As did our lawyers. I’m fully aware of the section you’re referencing.” Deflating a bit, she hunched her back and hugged her arms. “I simply didn’t think it applied in this particular case. Or that you’d be unfeeling enough to put it to the test.” Ivy’s gaze raked him from head to toe, then back again. “On second thought, I should’ve known better.”

  Low blow. Not entirely unfair, but still a hit below the belt. Especially from the saccharine sweet Ms. Rhodes. But if she thought he could be manipulated just because they’d spent twenty minutes making out in the office storage closet after hours yesterday, she’d better think again.

  “Don’t. Don’t make this personal. Whatever we have going on now, whatever happened between us in the past, has nothing to do with the situation at hand. Nothing, do you hear me?” He slammed his hand flat on the table, making the plates jump. Ivy stayed stock still, except for a twitch in her clenched jaw. “This is business. This is my livelihood, or what’s left of it, at any rate. Do I like putting the screws to you? Hell, no. Did I fight with our marketing director about it? Damn straight. But am I willing to risk my job over it? Or watch you get sued for breach of contract? No freaking way.”

  A beat of silence, quiet enough to hear the rhythmic, sticky slap of Sam’s rolling pin against dough. Their table neighbor had lowered her paper, now unabashedly watching Ben and Ivy fight it out. Ben white knuckled the edges of the table. When she accused him of being unfeeling, it was nothing he hadn’t already turned a deaf ear to from dozens of women over the years.

  But this time the words carried a painful sting, and drove him to a rare level of honesty that he already regretted. And he had no idea how Ivy would react. Part of him braced, expecting her glass of water to splash his face in about a nanosecond. Another part envisioned her storming out the door. Guess the next five minutes didn’t matter, as long as she agreed to do the interview, right?

  Right on cue, Ivy reached for her glass. Ben flinched. But all she did was trace a line through the drops of condensation beading along the bottom edge. “You really fought for me?” she asked in a small, surprised voice.

  Really? That’s what she took away from a near epic loss of his trademark cool attitude? “You bet.” Ben wasn’t sure who he astonished more with that revelation—Ivy or himself. Better drive his point home while he had the advantage. “Concentrate on the silver lining of Tracy and Seth’s event. You’re good at that, right?” The woman could bottle her oddly unquenchable positive attitude and hawk it at natural disaster sites. Or funerals.

  “Talk about how your meticulous planning prevented the rings from taking a dive into the lake, and saved the entire ceremony. Talk about how your job is to make the most wonderful day in someone’s life…truly the most wonderful day, and not a massive stress attack. It’ll make you come across as caring and capable. Easy segue into your new wedding show, which then leads into your new business venture.” Ben reached for her hand and covered her damp fingers with his palm. “No one comes off in a bad light. Your ethics are intact, our marketing department scores a slam dunk, and you’ll have people already lining up for opening day of your romance emporium.”

  “A Fine Romance,” she corrected softly. Ivy flipped over her hand, interlaced her fingers with his.

  “Good name.” Apparently they’d ridden out this particular storm, without any collateral damage. Ben didn’t know how it happened, but the electric tension in the air had dissipated. The lack of verbal fireworks must’ve disappointed their elderly neighbor, because she rattled her paper mightily, sniffed and disappeared behind it once more.

  “I’m sorry. I overreacted. It’s childish to fault you for the terms of a contract that I knowingly signed. You’re absolutely right—you don’t deserve to be sucker punched by my frustration with RealTV. I’ll do the interview.” A single eyebrow shot into a perfect vee. “Not simply to adhere to the letter of the law, but also because it’s a smart marketing choice. I appreciate you pointing that out.” Her brow smoothed out, and a hint of a smile teased at the corner of her lush mouth. “I’d also appreciate it if you would help me run through some talking points. You seem to have a good handle on how I should spin the interview.”

  Wait a minute. Ben’s head spun. No tears, no shouting, no storming out. And to top it all off, an acknowledgement of the wisdom of his approach? Ivy Rhodes was unlike any other woman he’d known, in the best possible way. “How appreciative are we talking?”

  Her smile grew bigger, while still close mouthed and mysterious. “Well, if you’re still up for the movies tonight, I know they’re playing a double feature of something I’m reall
y excited to pay no attention to whatsoever. While lavishing all my attention—and my kisses—on you. Sound good?”

  Ben squeezed her hand in release, then began shoveling in the reward cake he’d now earned twice over. “Best offer I’ve ever had.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Expect the best, plan for the worst, and prepare to be surprised.

  —Denis Waitley

  “I’m nervous,” said Ivy. She clenched and unclenched her hands over her belly. “I had butterflies in my stomach, but they got eaten by raccoons. Who then were attacked by bears. Do you hear me, Daphne? I have wild, rabid bears knotting up my stomach!”

  “I was right there with you until you turned the bears rabid. You need to get a grip.” Daphne tugged at the leg of Ivy’s navy cotton pants covered with grinning cows jumping over the moon. “Besides, nobody can be nervous in their pajamas. It’s why we’re having a pajama party in the first place, remember? You’ll feel so ridiculous sitting around our place with everyone in their jammies you won’t feel nervous about watching yourself on Wild Wedding Smackdown.”

  “A sound theory, but I’m finding that embarrassment on a nationwide level trumps my embarrassment about Ben seeing me in my distinctly non-sexy sleepwear.” Ben was the kind of man who inspired late night Internet shopping for lacy teddies. See-through camisoles and silky panties. Not the faded pajamas Daphne had given her five birthdays ago. She’d already refused to have sex with him. How could she keep him interested once he saw her dressed like an undergrad during finals week? Why hadn’t she thought of all this before they invited him to the viewing party?

  “Please. He can’t keep his hands off of you. And trust me when I say that tank top clings in all the right places. Whereas I look like a linebacker.”

  “You are wearing a Bears jersey,” Ivy pointed out. “Besides, why do you care? You aren’t trying to impress anyone.” She watched Daphne give herself a rigorous once over in the mirrored closet doors. For a night spent hanging out on the couch, she seemed overly interested in her ensemble. Ivy ran down the short list of male attendees. Ben was taken, Milo played for the wrong team, they thought of Sam as a brother, and Gib was a die hard Casanova. So why on earth was Daphne putting on lipstick and belting the oversized jersey? “Or is there a hook-up potential here I don’t know about?”